Feeling overwhelmed with all I have to do over the next few weeks, even though my job ends next Tuesday. I have a couple of phone interviews lined up, which is good, and a number of arrangements in the works to see various people before I leave (including a 3-year old's birthday party!). And a friend is coming to visit, which is lovely in its own right but it also means I can cram in any last-minute touristy things to do (seeing a Broadway show and walking the Brooklyn Bridge are at the top of the list). This is all making me very happy.
But, as I ought to have learned by now, my apartment isn't self-cleaning. Or self-packing, for that matter. I'm trying to break the cleaning up into pieces - for example, last night I cleaned up the hallway. The downside is, "cleaned up" effectively means that I moved the piles of mail that were practically blocking the door...and now the piles are in the living room. But you can open the door now!
Why do I have piles of mail, you ask? By my count, at least five people receive mail in my mailbox: me, the woman I am subletting from (mostly catalogs and magazines), two men who are apparently dead (mail is addressed "to the estate of") and some other person whose name could be male or female. Plus all the "to the occupant" crap that I always find crammed in the mailbox. Most of the other mail is obviously junk, but some of the stuff is from Social Security and law offices which really need to be returned. And since I appear to have a mutation or two in my "organization" gene pool, I just throw it all on the floor when I walk in, to be dealt with "later". Later, my friends, has finally come. So tonight it's me, Bewitched reruns, and a Sharpie to write "return to sender" across the fronts of envelopes. My broom (how appropriate...)is also within reach, so I can bang on the ceiling if/when the noise from upstairs begins to drown out Samantha and Darrin. I'm telling you, this life in the big city just plum wears me out :0